Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Quorn again took a cinch on himself. He felt he owed it to his race to be temperate — not, that is, to speak too sharply to a lady.

  “He is not the only one who runs risks,” she retorted.

  “There are poison, knives and tigers also in my horoscope. One may have courage and nevertheless be treacherous.”

  “Maybe, Miss.” Quorn’s tongue almost got the best of him. “If you know more about treachery than I do, that’s your privilege. My pleasure is to know a good guy when I see him. Him — I mean, he — that babu is the only party who can change my judgment of him. If you’ll pardon me, Miss, that’s my last word.”

  “It is my part to discover whom to trust,” she answered.

  “Why not do it, Miss?”

  “I think I like your spirit better than your manners,” she retorted.

  “I apologize for them, Miss. Manners can be picked up easy; there’s a heap o’ books about ’em, but I’ve had no time to study. If it’s manners, I’ll shut up, and listen, and try to mend ’em. But manners won’t make you a Maharanee. I’ve met guys with perfect manners that I’d trust as far as I could throw Asoka by the tail.”

  That made her laugh, and all her ladies laughed, too, because they saw she was pleased, and they felt the relief from the strain, although they had not understood what was said. The Princess changed her voice and her entire expression:

  “I believe I can trust you, Mr Quorn.”

  “Okay, Miss. What about the babu?”

  “You seem to have convinced me. I believe I trust him also. Are you also very sleepy?”

  Quorn got that hint at the first guess, and nothing could have suited him better. “Yes, Miss,” he answered promptly. “Good night. Good night, ladies.” His retreat was masterly. He bowed, took two steps backward, stuck his right hand in his pocket, faced about and strode toward the door. When he reached it he faced them again and repeated: “Good night, ladies.” Then he walked out. “There,” he murmured to himself, “that’ll learn ’em who has manners.” He listened for a moment for giggles through the open window. There were none. He nodded to himself.

  One of the turbaned gentlemen on guard at the door supposed he was wondering which way the babu had gone, so he pointed in the direction of the passage where the van was parked. Quorn thanked him and walked toward it. He stumbled over the pole in the darkness, hurting his shin, and for some unaccountable reason that relieved his feelings, although he swore fiercely. He was about to crawl under the van when he heard the tiger clawing at the woodwork, so he spent ten or fifteen minutes talking to the beast through a little square hole with a slide, near the top, that he could just reach by standing on tip-toe on the driver’s perch. The tiger grew quiet. He heard him lie down. Then he crawled beneath the wagon to the far side.

  “Wonder what it is,” he murmured, “about me and animals? The critturs seem to take a shine to me, no matter whether I like ’em or not. Wisht the women felt the same way!” He walked over to where Asoka was chained beside the smaller elephant, and both beasts appeared pleased to see him. Asoka felt him and smelt him all over. “Durned strange,” he muttered, “I’m as scared as a cat when he does that, and yet it seems to make him easy-tempered. Am I second-sighted? I’ve heard say second-sighted folks are good at — hell, I don’t believe a word of it.”

  He stuck his hands into his pockets and walked toward the gate-house, where a streak of light shone through a crack in the window-shutter. If the babu was not in there, Moses was, and Moses could make him some coffee; he needed it, having had no supper. Moses opened the door when he knocked — no less white-eyed — no less frightened than he had been.

  “Coffee,” he ordered. “Make it snappy. Where’s the babu?”

  “Oh sir, he is on your bed and he is sleeping, but I think you should awaken him and ask him what he has told me. I am veree upset.”

  “Take a holt of yourself. If you upset the coffee like you did my supper, me and you’ll have an argyment. What did the babu tell you?”

  “Sir, he said he hopes to see a massacre! He said the Princess is a naughtee bitch who shall be eaten by a tiger if he can contrive it! He says that the priests are gentlemen, and that the Maharajah is a sweetlee philosophic saint; however, that he hopes the British will arrive and murder all of them! He said he is fed up, and that he would sell all Narada for fifteen rupees. I fear he is mad and we are ruined!”

  “Sounds to me as if he’d gone sane of a sudden,” Quorn answered. “But I reckon he’s only tireder than what I am. Go and make that coffee. Then chuck me a couple o’ rugs in a corner — find me something for a pillow — and I’ll turn in.”

  “Shall I call you, sir, at daybreak?”

  Quorn considered it a moment. “Call us both,” he answered, “if you hear the British airplanes humming. Barring that, let’s sleep good. Watch that coffee now, and don’t use more than half an egg nor let it boil over. You ruined the last batch. Step on her.”

  Then he went in to look at the babu, who was sleeping like a fat child, naked except for a crumpled bed-sheet, smiling and breathing as easily as if he had never known trouble in all his life. Quorn switched off the flashlight at last:

  “Durn him,” he muttered, “what’s the betting he isn’t up first in the morning to have first crack at my safety razor? Guess I’ll have to fit a new blade, and I’ve only two left.”

  XXII

  “Why Am I A Nobody?”

  Quorn dreamed interminably that night, and the eyes of Gunpat Rao seemed to be the gates through which the dreadful dreams came pouring. Destiny and doom were one sensation, and the face of Gunpat Rao seemed to be the whole sky. His teeth were monuments, like milestones that measured the march of disaster. Then they changed into great white pillars that guarded realms of dark death. But they were tigers’ fangs nevertheless. And from his nostrils cobras crawled that killed men, who did not die but walked away into a gloom amid silent columns. All the while Asoka’s forefoot was above Quorn’s head, ready to crush him at a word from some one who was waiting for the airplanes. But the Maharajah drank and said the Princess should marry the babu and be sent by telegram, in code all scrambled. And that was why Moses walked along a parapet, with one eye like a lobster’s at the end of a stick; he said the mob was surging against the temple wall, which would fall down soon and they would all be drowned.

  When Quorn awoke it was broad daylight; he knew by the light-rays streaming through the shutters that the sun was already far above the roofs of the mission buildings. There was no sign of the babu, except for a disordered bed and the cast-off clothes of yesterday in a heap on the floor. And Quorn had been right about the safety-razor, only that the babu had used both the new blades, leaving him the choice of three wet, blunted ones with which to scrape away his own tough whiskers. That made him indignant and the indignation helped a little, but not much. There was plenty of noise in the compound, and a great deal more noise outside in the street. But Moses was making a friendlier clatter in the tiny kitchen, and by the time Quorn had tubbed himself there was a smell of well made coffee that stirred his nerves and made him feel almost human, although worried. He felt that last night’s dream was ominous because he could remember it in detail and he was superstitious about dreams that he remembered after waking. There was a comfortless sensation of impending calamity.

  When he had dressed he discovered that his crumpled turban was missing, and that was bad because he had come to think the thing was lucky. There was a brand-new one, of daffodil-yellow silk, folded neatly on the big wooden chest that was used as a dressing-table. He detested that shade of yellow; it suggested to him weakness and effeminacy. Good dark sturdy colors, such as navy-blue, maroon, or the brown of a well brushed riding-boot were more to Quorn’s mind. Or he liked snuff-color, or battleship gray. So he shouted for Moses.

  “What the hell’s this?”

  “Sir, the babu said you are to wear it. Same is veree necessaree. I am to encrown you with it artfullee.”

&nbs
p; “I’ll crown him. What’s he doing?”

  “Sir, I think that nobodee can tell. He is a man of manee importunitees, not confeedences. He was up at daybreak. He rebuked me with a boot when I suggested to him peaceablee that he should not appropreeate your shaving-brush; and he commanded me to get for him clean garments from the citee. So I did it, and the citee is tumultuous with manee people. It is like a hartal at Amritzar.”

  “How did you get out of here?” Quorn asked him.

  “Through the main gate.”

  “Isn’t it guarded?”

  “Yes sir, but the sentrees are so friendlee that I think they are corrupted by the babu, who perhaps has won the militaree over to the Princess, though I do not know about such matters. And when I brought the clothing he had had his breakfast, using all the tinned peaches, so that there are none left. There was a disturbance because there are manee people who have entered the mission, and he went to see about it, saying that the Princess is princessing already and that is too soon for same. Somebodee brought bread for all these people in baskets that were passed over the wall; but Rattee stole same for the eleephants, who consequentlee are contented. But the breakfastless were veree angree, and so Rattee hid himself in the van with the tiger, where it would be indiscreet to follow. But the babu was angree about that also, saying that too manee people now know that there is a tiger in there.”

  “Quit your kidding. Is Ratty in there now?”

  “No, he came out.”

  “All in one piece?”

  “Yes, he is the man who had that tiger when it was a kitten and before it grew sick. It had the rickets. It was he who took it to the Jains because it was a veree lovely tiger, and he thinks it is an incarnation of a wicked person who was good to Rattee when he was a babee. So he loves it. But the babu says that you should feed the tiger, since it must remember you are not a nastee person; because even veree lovelee tigers are incorrigiblee tigerish, particularlee if they are an incarnation of a wicked person — which is superstitious, and I think he mocks it sacrilegeouslee, but I say what he said. So there is a killed goat in the kitchen, but I do not know who brought it.”

  Quorn poked at a bundle. “What’s that?” he demanded. “That, sir, is the costume of the Princess.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Rattee is to wear same. It is obviouslee redolent of personalitee. It savors of her individualitee, possessing sweet aroma that is markedlee delicious. And the babu says a tiger is inadequatlee wittee in his judgment, seeing that a sense of smell is not as rational as when a pundit understands the rule of three.”

  “But what’s the idea?”

  “Sir, he did not tell me. But he said it would be veree sinful to neglect to load the dice in anee game with fortune, because fortune is a ladee, and he said that is a verb sap, but he did not offer to eluceedate it.”

  “What’s all that noise in the street?”

  “So manee people, sir, that nobodee can pass, and the police are impotentlee issuing commands that nobodee obeys.”

  “Hell — haven’t the cops got billies?”

  “Yes, sir, but a superstition is illusory, and it is consequentlee difficult to hit. The babu has been telling all the people — and I think he has assistants who are also telling all the people — they must watch, because the Princess, at a horoscopicalee perfect moment, will proceed to lead the tiger out of Kali’s into Siva’s temple by the bridge across the street; and after that the Gunga sahib will convey her to the palace. So the superstitious people are a little skepticalee predisposed to see that, and they will not tolerate a disappointment.”

  “What’s the Maharajah doing? Why in thunder don’t he act rough? Is he crazy?”

  “It is said, sir, that the militaree are not loyal to him. It is also said that the police are satisfactorilee speculative as to what might happen if they made a bad guess.”

  “Did the babu tell you that?”

  “No. It was being said by manee people in the citee when I went to get the vestments for the babu. It is also said that gallopers have gone to rail-head, since the head telegrapher has said his instrument is out of order. Some say British troops are being sent for.”

  “Sure thing, and that’s the end of us! The Maharajah’d be a sucker not to send for help. He should ha’ done it sooner.”

  “But I think it is not he,” said Moses. “There are certain people in the citee who are unimaginativelee adverse to a change of government and it is they who sent the gallopers to rail-head. Some say other gallopers are sent to overtake them and there may be fighting. But the Maharajah, it is said, is hoping veree audiblee, and some say drunkenlee, that there will be an accident. It is a rumor in the citee that he says a daughter is a cheap price to pay for the humiliation of the priests, whose tiger is known to be so feerocious that the ceremonee is impossible; so if he had another daughter he would give her also if she were an emanceepated female. Same are poisonous to his equanimitee. Accordinglee he expects to deenounce the priesthood after the sad event — so they say in the citee. Manee people, though they do not love the Maharajah, say that it is proper she should perish horriblee, because she is a ladee who has broken purdah, which to them is worse than bolshevism.”

  “What’s she doing?”

  “She is sending messages impatientlee to find the babu. There are some who tell her that the babu is disloyal. They are saying she should trust some other person, who will find a way to satisfy the populace and yet not run a big risk. Those are saying to her also that it is a proper moment now to come to terms with Gunpat Rao, who is probablee a little worried. But she keeps on sending for the babu.”

  “You ought to be a reporter,” said Quorn. “You’d make a fortune of a daily paper.”

  “Oh, sir, I would love it! Just to think of writing about real kings and queens, and genuinelee interesting people! It would—”

  In burst the babu, sweating but triumphant, with his nice clean clothing dusty and his turban over one ear. He slammed the door in the faces of about a dozen people and strode straight to the mirror to put his headdress in order.

  “Sir,” said Moses, “I am told to tell you, you should go immediately to the Princess, who is waiting.”

  “She will keep a lot of people waiting if she is ever a Maharanee,” the babu answered. “And if we lose, it doesn’t matter. Let her wait a little. I enjoy importance while I have it. Gunga sahib, are you good and tigerishly gutty? Attaboy and up guards? All that sort of hocus-pocus? It is up to you to hit the winning home-run. Babe Ruth in a coal-hole. There is dirty work to be done in the dark. Dam-bad-Yankee-doodle-i-do dangerous under-the-bottom — not over-the-top. Are you in favor of it?”

  “Spill your beans,” said Quorn, “I’m sick o’ knowing nothing.”

  “But your ignorance is blissful. All the news is bloody awful,” the babu answered. “Cruxes are excruciating always. Do you know why this babu is nothing but a fat non-entity?” He sat down, fanning himself with a Saturday Evening Post. There were marks of weariness — deep rings below his eyes and lines toward the corners of his mouth, but there was laughter and enthusiasm in his brown eyes, and the exhaustion, that had made his shoulders sag the night before, had vanished. He crossed one leg over another and looked like a man who had won a fortune. Haste was not in him although he glanced at his wrist-watch and compared it with the little alarm-clock on the mantelpiece, which had stopped for lack of winding.

  “Kings and Queens,” he said, “are always silly in a crisis. You can bet on it. For instance, there was Silly Willy Kaiser. There was simpleton Czar Nicholas. A person who consents to be a king is naturally silly. You can lay a safe bet how he will behave in any circumstances if you know the circumstances. What annoys me is that this babu should never have been a safe bet. I have been as silly as a foreign office expert — almost. How? You don’t know. I will tell you. Modesty compels me to admit there isn’t anyone on earth, from Venizelos, who is a wise old weasel, down to Mussolini, who is simply a revivalist
in buskins, who has had half my experience. If you could imagine the reverse of ignorance, you might suspect how much I know; and it would make you sick, I don’t mind telling you, I know such awful things about so many people. There isn’t anybody in the League of Nations, and there wasn’t anybody at Versailles, or at the Round Table Conference in London, possessed of a tenth of my knowledge about things that matter. There isn’t a soldier in the world who has had more narrow escapes than I, nor a general who knows more strategy. This babu is a bird of many feathers, each of which is inconsistent with the other and appropriately lucky, because luck is consistent in nothing but inconsistency — a verb sap that is metaphysically scientific.”

  “Cut the tape and come through,” Quorn suggested, swallowing his coffee.

  “Listen to me. I have pulled off things that would arouse the incredulity of even a reporter of Soviet news for the capitalistic Press. I have studied history and philosophy until I know the faults of all the famous men, and the obscenity of all morality, and all the tricks of politicians, plus the use of propaganda. I am timid it is true, but I have learned to use that as an asset where a braver man would break his silly neck. And I have studied battles, since it always was a mystery to me why both sides weren’t wiped out like Kilkenny cats. So I have learned that it takes more than a million bullets to make one casualty, and that has been a great help to a timid person such as I am. But it did not solve the problem, Why am I a nobody?”

  “Do you know now?” Quorn asked, gulping down some more coffee.

  “Yes, I know now. Generals who were idiots have won battles. Statesmen, who were imbeciles, have won garters, without as much as knowing what a saucy woman thinks about. Presidents, who were figureheads in a stuffed shirt laundered by a crooked boss, have won general elections, and a tomb as big as a sane man’s house. Slow horses have won fast races. And the reason why is, they were usually in the right place at the right time. But I never have been.”